


take a little bite, take a bite for me

by skatingsplits



Series: we couldn't bring the columns down [3]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Canon, Public Sex, Rough Sex, hey satanists it's me ya boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-02 12:17:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21161546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatingsplits/pseuds/skatingsplits
Summary: She knows fine well that she shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t have left Hilda at home with a squawking three-year-old and a sulky Ambrose and an endless supply of resentful passive-aggression to deal with when she gets back. She shouldn’t have spent an extra half an hour in front of the mirror, carefully swiping a tube of waxy red paint over her cupid’s bow and trying to ignore the tiny furrows around her eyes that certainly weren’t there the last time she came to one of these things.





	take a little bite, take a bite for me

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. It's been a while but here's some filthy nonsense for our fave filthy idiots.  
2\. Title from Marika Hackman's Apple Tree.

She knows fine well that she shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t have left Hilda at home with a squawking three-year-old and a sulky Ambrose and an endless supply of resentful passive-aggression to deal with when she gets back. She shouldn’t have spent an extra half an hour in front of the mirror, carefully swiping a tube of waxy red paint over her cupid’s bow and trying to ignore the tiny furrows around her eyes that certainly weren’t there the last time she came to one of these things. She shouldn’t have spent the whole afternoon lying to herself as best she could, telling herself over and over that she was only going because they’d missed far too many coven events lately and people were beginning to talk.

But, in her own defence, Zelda has to admit that that is true. In the past, if she’d ever imagined herself raising a child, it had been in much the same style as her own mother; handing an infant off as soon as it pops out to someone who’s actually getting recompensed to deal with crying and screaming and unsavoury bodily fluids, and perhaps spending an hour a day with it in the parlour once it’s been cleaned and brushed and told to mind its manners. The reality has turned out to be somewhat different. If she’d so much as hinted at a nanny, Hilda would have bitten her head off, but to Zelda’s surprise, the thought had never entered her head once she was holding a small Sabrina in her arms. She hadn’t thought herself capable of the extremity of feeling she has for her little niece but, by Satan, pseudo-parenthood is exhausting. She can’t remember the last time she had a moment to herself that wasn’t underpinned by a current of Sabrina-based worry, however slight, and it’s certainly true that gossip has begun to wend its way around the coven. It prickles on the back of her neck at Black Mass (the only regular worship she seems to have time for anymore) and stings more than Zelda would care to admit. Guilt isn’t exactly an unfamiliar emotion for Zelda but it’s one that she prefers not to have to acknowledge; endless whispers about “the crumbling devotions of the ruined Spellman family, practically living as mortals now, you’d never have known they were descended from High Priests” make it far too difficult to ignore the ever-mounting shame that’s been spiralling inside her for the last three years.

Still, no matter what she tries to tell herself, that isn’t really the reason that she’s here. She’s really here because she’s a stupid, selfish slut who’s more of a slave to her own desires than even the Dark Lord would commend. She’s really here because Faustus Blackwood kissed her after Mass last week and, as much as she despises herself for it, she’s hardly been able to think about anything else since. It had been irritatingly brief, barely more than a stolen moment in the vestry, but it’s been playing in the back of her mind like a broken record for five days, just as she knows he’d intended it to. Damn him. Oh, he’d apologised immediately, let his fingertips trail over her cheek as he claimed to have let himself get carried away but Zelda was far too well-acquainted with the glint in his eye to have believed that for a second. It wouldn’t at all surprise her if he’s well aware that the only thing touching her these days is her own practised fingers, that something as simple as a kiss could leave her frantic for more, for something, anything. He’d fully intended to send her into this desperate, lustful tailspin and it’s utterly infuriating that she’s allowed him to succeed. Perhaps under other circumstances, she wouldn’t have succumbed. But it’s been nearly three years since they last fucked (she’d stormed into the newly appointed High Priest’s office and crushed herself to him without a word, so desperate to feel anything other than desolation in the wake of Edward’s death) and although she hadn’t previously been keeping count, Zelda is fairly sure that this is the longest they’ve ever managed to keep their hands off each other. Before her world tipped itself upside down so dramatically, they used to end up in bed together at least once a year, although “bed” was often more of a metaphor than an actuality. Sometimes it was just one quick fuck against the wall, or spreading herself out on his desk at the Academy. Sometimes they’d fallen into a few weeks, even months, of frequent, frenzied sex that always ended up fading out into nothing before the cycle restarted. But, as with all other aspects of Zelda’s life, Sabrina’s death has changed everything. Faustus married Constance, who seems to be a lot stricter about fidelity than any of his previous partners (a great shame, Zelda has often thought as she’s watched the woman’s lovely, long legs walk down the aisle to the front pew of the Desecrated Church). And Zelda has Sabrina. Sabrina, who she loves fiercely with every fibre of her being, but has really put a damper on any semblance of Zelda’s sex life.

Tonight, however, is going to change that. Even if... _certain_ delights are not on the menu, Zelda is sure that she can find something to sample, something to fan the flames of the burning desire that’s been building inside her for days. That’s precisely what an orgy is for, after all.

As it turns out, she doesn’t have to wait long at all. Slipping her long, black coat off and making it very clear to the terrified servant in the Academy foyer that if he loses it, she’ll turn him into its replacement, Zelda takes a moment to examine her reflection in the thoughtfully-positioned mirror. Black silk envelopes her breasts and her hips, deliciously dramatic against the paleness of her skin in the dim candlelight; despite her earlier repressed frustrations over the faint crinkles round her mouth and darkness under her eyes, she knows she’s an enticing prospect. And she doesn’t appear to be the only one who thinks so. She’s barely made it into the ballroom before Brother Hill slides up to her, his hand grazing her now-bare lower back in a way that isn’t at all fitting with his casual questions about her plans for Samhain. Honestly, Zelda can’t for the life of her imagine why he’s bothering with the small talk- they're all here for precisely the same reason. But it’s no great hardship to go along with it, participate in an actual adult conversation and politely laugh at his jokes while she evaluates him as a sexual prospect. There are both pros and cons, that’s certain. He’s hardly the most attractive specimen in the room, and it doesn’t seem likely that there’s a huge amount of stamina hiding under that grey-haired chest (and in the back of her mind, although she doesn’t quite let it bubble to the surface, there’s the ever-present hope she can’t dispel that a particular someone else might have been waiting for her to arrive). But then, she’s hardly as young as she used to be either and definitely not as in practice as she had been the last time she attended an event of this nature. He might be a nice-warm up, a way to limber herself up a little before the main event? Might as well proceed and put the poor man out of his misery; Zelda has just reached out to slide her hand up his arm when suddenly there’s another hand on her back, a firmer one, and a low, resonant voice cuts into the conversation.

"Thank you, Brother, I think that will be all."

A frown settles onto his face but Brother Hill moves away without a word. Even before she's turned her head, Zelda can feel her cunt getting slick. Granted, that’s how her traitorous body usually reacts to the man whose sharp nails are gently running over her spine, but the intensity of this moment is overpowering. His presumptuous behaviour should annoy her, does annoy her, but it also manages to make her head spin.

“Good evening, your Excellency.” Zelda’s voice is hushed as she turns to face the High Priest, her pulse fluttering when his eyes immediately fix on her mouth and she can see them darken even in the dim light. “You’ve disposed of my entertainment for the evening, it seems. May I ask why?”

Faustus scoffs, the hand on her back slinking around to possessively encircle her hip. His touch can hardly be called gentle and it’s enough of a promise of what’s to come to make her shiver.

“I sincerely doubt that you’d experience anything approaching entertainment if you kept company with that old bastard. We both know you can do better than that, Zelda.” He steers her round to face the rest of the huge room, bringing his body flush against her back. He’s already hard and the feeling makes her ache. “You could have anyone here tonight if you wanted them, and you know it,” Faustus purrs, his voice low against her ear. “You can have anything you want, darling. You only need to ask for it.”

"Anything? Well, might I inquire as to Lady Blackwood's whereabouts this evening? I must admit, she looked so divine at Mass last week, I've been rather hoping that she would make an appearance tonight." She speaks teasingly and gets the reaction she wanted; Faustus's hold on her tightens possessively, his brow furrowing.

"Constance is otherwise engaged," he says curtly, squeezing her to him. "But if you've already planned out your evening, Sister Spellman, please don't let me ruin your fun." He sounds beyond annoyed, although she knows he knows she's toying with him. Good. He has always responded so beautifully when he’s cross. An angry Faustus is a Faustus who’s more likely to put the lash to her back or force her to her knees and if there’s one thing Zelda doesn’t want this evening, it’s tender caresses and a gentle touch.

"Oh, I'm sure I'll manage," she sighs, pointedly grinding her arse against his erection. "Actually there was one thing I've been dwelling on..." She trails off and Faustus pushes his hips forward, ignoring various other witches and warlocks trying to catch his eye.

"Go on, Zelda."

"I've been thinking... Recently, I've been so remiss in my duties to the Dark Lord. Coming to Black Mass is the bare minimum but with so much strife at home- I haven't been doing enough, Father. I've been lazy, ungrateful to Him." She inclines her head to whisper against his neck: "I've been bad."

That has the effect she'd been aiming for. He growls, biting her earlobe hard enough to send shivers down her spine.

“Oh, I know you have,” he purrs, two big hands coming up to toy with her breasts through the flimsy black lace that doesn’t really deserve to be called a brassiere. So many people are watching them, even those who should be occupied with their own play. Zelda loves it. She feels so special, on display as the High Priest’s chosen favourite. “I've noticed, Zelda. I've noticed your... distraction during Mass, my dear. I've noticed you flashing your pretty little panties at me from the front row. Did you think you were being subtle, dearest? Or did you simply not care? Are you so hard up for it that you'll just spread your legs in church and see who wants to have a go at that greedy cunt first?” Zelda whines, melting into his words as she melts into his touch. She shakes her head, although the honest truth is that there have been times in the last few months where she'd certainly felt frenzied enough to do exactly that.

“Never, your Excellency!” She sounds as scandalised and virtuous as she’s able to when talking to the man who’s bitten, stroked or spanked every single inch of her; Faustus likes being able to pretend that he’s dragging her down to his level, as though she doesn’t meet him in the metaphorical gutter every single time. “It’s merely that I find it so difficult to concentrate on my devotions when I know I haven’t been serving Him as I should, when I haven’t been showing my appreciation for the bountiful pleasures He bestows on us. I feel so guilty, Father. The Dark Lord gives us so much and I’ve been so ungrateful.”

Adopting the breathlessly demure voice to which Faustus responds so well is barely an act at this point; it’s getting more and more difficult to catch her breath by the second. The heat radiating off her sometimes-lover is dizzying in itself, not to mention the intoxicatingly perfumed air and the scattered sounds of pleasure surrounding them. Far more quickly than she’d imagined, Zelda is slipping into that dreamy, mercurial place that he’s so wonderful at taking her to and, judging by the way he hums soothingly against her neck, he knows it. What it’s less likely he knows is how genuine the self-abasing sentiments are that go along with it. Even as the High Priest of the Church of Night, she’s aware that Faustus hardly gives a damn about her failings as a disciple to the Dark Lord unless they allow him to toy with her in one way or another. It would probably never occur to him that when Zelda plays the repenting sinner, she’s hardly playing at all. Not that he would care if it did; Faustus has never possessed anything faintly resembling emotional depth and it’s highly unlikely that he’s developed it in the three years since the last time she had his hands greedily groping at her tits.

“And how do you intend to repent, Sister Spellman?”

“Is that not for you to tell me, Father Blackwood?” She twists in his arms until their faces are hardly two inches apart. His eyes barely flicker from their fixation on her mouth and Zelda feels a heavy, aching tug of lust as visceral images of their most recent encounter flash through her mind.

“Indeed.” It’s astounding, how much weight he can put into one word.

“You know, sometimes I find that the old ways are the simplest. On your knees, Zelda, and beg for my forgiveness. You know how.” It barely takes a moment before she’s on her knees in front of him, her hands frantically scrabbling at his belt. This is exactly right, exactly what she’d wanted. She hadn’t let herself realise til this moment how badly she’d been craving his absolution; this might all be a game for Faustus but to Zelda, it feels very, very real. He’s so hard and smooth in her hand and although she’d rather be burned at the stake than tell him so, she really has missed this. Batting her hand away, Faustus takes a hold of himself and swipes the tip of his cock over her lips and her mouth falls open automatically, chasing him as he pulls back a little.

“Greedy slut. No wonder you can’t concentrate at Mass, darling. You’re too busy thinking about sucking my cock, aren’t you?” Zelda nods and, as with every role she plays for Faustus, it’s only partially an act. She wants it. She wants to feel the weight of him on her tongue, his hand grasping and pulling at her hair, hear the way he groans as she makes him lose the composure he tries so hard to maintain. It’s endlessly delicious, reducing such an intimidating, controlling figure into a desperate animal with nothing but her mouth. Hearing him praise her as he comes down her throat is enough to have her on the edge of her own orgasm at the best of times but here, where everyone can hear their High Priest tell disgraced, desolate Zelda Spellman that she’s his perfect slut... Her cunt hasn’t even been touched this evening but she’s so wet that the silk between her thighs must be incontrovertibly ruined.

“Please, your Excellency,” Zelda purrs, doing nothing to stop her hunger for him from showing on her face. “Let me make amends, hmm? It’ll be so much easier to behave myself if I know I’ve done something to earn your forgiveness.” She leans forward, mouth falling open in submissive expectation. There’s already a smear of her lipstick on his cock, almost like a brand, and it’s one of the most arousing things her lust-heavy eyes have seen in months.

“Well...” Faustus draws the word out, a cruel smile on his face. “I doubt even your practiced mouth can suck well enough to make me forget what a naughty infidel you are. But you can try, darling, if it’s going to make you feel better.”

With no warning, he pushes into her open mouth and Zelda is very grateful that his groan covers her relieved sigh. She deliberately strokes his ego quite enough, there’s no need for her body’s involuntary responses to do so too. Logically, she should hate herself for having missed this. If any other witch had told her that they regularly thought about letting a man fuck their mouth while they made themselves come, she would have pitied them, thought them an undignified little fool. But logic has very little place between the two of them and it’s only here, as the High Priest grabs a rough handful of her hair, that Zelda can admit to herself that she is a fool where he’s concerned. Her only saving grace is that she'll never be quite as big a fool as him.

“Oh, that’s it, precious girl, that’s it...” Faustus already sounds slightly breathless and that’s enough to make her chest heave a little. She wonders if he’s thought about this, if he strokes himself imagining the heat of her mouth, and she thinks she knows the answer. “I’ve always said that people would pay for the use of this talented little tongue, haven’t I, my sweet? What a missed opportunity. Instead of cavorting with mortals for a living, you could have filled the Church’s coffers by getting on your lovely knees. Satan knows, you do it for free often enough.” As factually incorrect as that is at the present moment, his words still make Zelda whimper. If it came from anyone else, it would be more than sufficient cause for her to curse them so badly that burning in the Pit would seem like a pleasant summer vacation in comparison but from him, with his cock inside her, all they do is make her almost uncomfortably wet.

Zelda pulls back just a touch, just enough to tongue at the head of his cock, looking up at him with darkened eyes as she does so. The visual is apparently too much for Faustus; groaning, his eyes fall shut and his hips jerk forward, making Zelda splutter unexpectedly and her eyes begin to water.

“Dirty girl,” he grinds out through a clenched jaw. “Don’t cry, darling, we both know you love it. And you don’t want to ruin all that pretty makeup, do you? Or do you? Maybe you want that gorgeous face all spoilt and messy so everyone knows exactly what you’ve been doing. That sounds like something that would get my lovely little show-off dripping down her thighs.” He certainly isn’t wrong. Zelda has always been one to savour her trophies for as long as possible, whether it’s bruises round her neck or a handprint on her cheek or, in this case, mascara streaming down her face so everyone can see that she’s had her throat fucked by the High Priest. But that isn’t what’s important right now. What’s important is that she makes him come, makes him feel good, makes him proud of her. She eagerly bobs her head forward, relaxing her throat as best she can so she can let him hit the back of her throat and barely make a whimper.

“Fuck, Zelda.” He’s being so loud, even the people in the adjoining rooms must be able to hear him and it makes her shiver. “So good at this, aren’t you? I dream about this fucking mouth, precious, coming all over your pretty face, making you lick me clean. Do your job, Zelda, show me what you’re fucking good for...”

He sounds almost drunk, slurred and frantic, and when Zelda moans loudly around his cock, that seems to be too much for the High Priest. He come with a groan, still fucking her mouth and even Zelda isn’t dexterous enough to swallow up all the mess he makes. His come is dripping down her chin, her throat is starting to ache and her makeup must be beyond saving. She hasn’t felt this alive in months. Eventually, when his movements have stilled and she’s cleaned him up, she moves to draw back and stand up but a strong hand on her head keeps her firmly in place.

“Say thank you, Zelda.” Her breath catches in her chest but she doesn’t even think of refusing.

“Thank you, your Excellency, for giving me a chance to atone.” She makes a show of licking her lips, the tip of her tongue daintily polishing the corner of her mouth. “I hope I was able to show you how truly sorry I am.” Faustus sighs, looking at her with a sombre expression she knows fine well is entirely false.

“Well, I'm sure you tried your best, my dear, but really, I had thought you rather more capable than that.” Zelda smiles coolly, as if she can't still taste the extent of her capabilities on her tongue. “Any slut on a street corner can do what you just did, sweetheart. I can't imagine the Dark Lord is much moved.” Faustus tuts sadly, a glimmer in his eye as he helps her to her feet and pulls her tightly to him. In her peripheral vision, Zelda can see witches and warlocks practically circling them like hungry dogs, waiting for their chance to swoop in with the High Priest now that he's presumably finished with the evening's first plaything. “Do you think you can do a little better? Or should I merely toss you to the hungry masses and find myself a good, devoted girl to play with?”

Shaking her head vigorously, Zelda leans in and starts to kiss his neck, murmuring persuasively against his skin.

“You know you don't want that, your Excellency. You don't want to see anyone else's hands on me, squeezing and stroking and making me come for them, when you haven't even touched my pretty pussy yet. You don't want to see me shuddering around someone else’s cock, moaning someone else's name. And you don't want a good girl, Faustus, you know you don't. You never have. You want me.” She presses a last, lingering kiss to the place where his pulse is jumping in his neck and pulls back, gazing up at him with beseeching eyes. His own face is unreadable, his jaw tight, and as he starts to move, Zelda involuntarily tilts her head up for the kiss she’s sure is about to be bestowed on her. Not for the first time this evening, she’s wrong.

“Presumptuous slut,” he snarls, grasping hold of both of her arms and dragging her backwards with him until they both tumble to the ground. There are cushions and throws scattered everywhere but she doubts Faustus would have stopped even if they’d fallen to the bare marble floor; he’s frantic, his hands tearing at her lingerie roughly and Zelda doesn’t have time to catch her breath before he’s inside her and she’s moaning his name.

“You really think you’re that fucking special, Zelda? You think that out of every witch and warlock in this coven, I could only possibly want to be with you? With a stuck-up little tart who was born with a stick up her arse, who thinks she’s so superior to the rest of us even now that she’s inches away from excommunication?” His voice is quiet in its fury but the part of Zelda that’s able to focus on something other than how good he feels inside her is sure that nobody in the room has missed a single word. “You think you get to pick and choose, to deign to do what you feel like and then snap your fingers and I come running, sweetheart? Not a chance. The High Priest doesn’t do what vain little witches tell him to do, Zelda.” She’s halfway between crying and coming and genuinely doesn’t know which is going to happen first. He’s fucking her so hard and she’s pinned so firmly in place and even though they’re in a room full of people, it’s like he’s all there is. Him and his anger and his fingers on her clit.

“I’m in charge here, my sweet. You do what I tell you to do, understand?” She does understand, she understands completely. “So do what that beautiful whore’s body was made to do, Zelda, and come for me, do as you’re told for once in your life and come on your High Priest’s cock.”

Zelda couldn’t disobey if she tried. She comes sobbing and scratching, her nails slicing so hard into Faustus’s shoulders that his hiss of pain is loud enough to permeate through all the noise she’s making, all the half-finished curses and almost-unintelligible moans of his name. It takes a long moment after her body has stopped shaking for Zelda to realise that Faustus is still hard inside her, although from the look of his tightly-clenched jaw, it must be a very near thing. His thrusts are much shallower now and the blazing fury in his eyes has dimmed to a low flicker.

“You still look beautiful when you come, darling,” he murmurs and it’s enough to make Zelda’s barely-recovered cunt clench again. Feeling almost drunk on her pleasure and far more malleable than she should be, Zelda allows him to manoeuvre their bodies so that she’s astride his lap, his back propped up against the plethora of pillows so thoughtfully provided for this purpose. Although Faustus’s body feels taut with the expectation of his not-too distant orgasm, the hand that begins to stroke her hair does so lazily, almost casually.

“They’re all watching, sweetheart. They’re all watching my favourite girl ride me, they all know how you sound when you’ve got your High Priest buried balls deep in your soaking, greedy cunt, you noisy slut.” As if on cue, Zelda moans, unable to stop herself. She wasn’t even close to reaching the surface of that dreamy pool of pleasure she’d been submerged in and now he’s dragging her down to the depths again. Once again, her nails sink into his shoulders, trying to hold onto him as if that could possibly prevent her from drowning. His voice is so hushed and intimate but it sounds amplified in her ears and it’s as though he’s all there is, his voice and his hands and his cock. Every witch and warlock on the continent could be piled in the room to watch and Zelda would hardly know it; all she can focus on is him. “They know you’re mine, they always have. Did you think it was a secret, dearest, that you were getting fucked during your private tuition at the Academy? They knew you were spreading your legs for your professor, they knew you couldn’t fucking keep your cunt away from my cock.” Even in her hazy state, Zelda can tell that Faustus’s self-control is rapidly flying out of the window. “They know that I only have to click _my_ fingers and you’ll be on your knees sucking me off and fucking thanking me for it, don’t they? And they know that you’re my special girl, Zelda. My precious little whore, my very favourite girl. The Dark Lord’s favourite girl.”

It’s all too much; she’s shaking like a leaf and bucking against him so needily that she must look exactly like the spoilt slut he knows she is. His fingers clasp at her jaw and pull her face down to his, into a brief but brutal kiss. When they break apart, Zelda is almost panting and she can’t stop herself from blurting out:

“Please!” She barely knows what she’s asking for but apparently Faustus does. He growls, stealing another harsh kiss.

“I know what you want, Zelda.” He's ravished her to ruination this evening but the intensity of his gaze still feels uncomfortably intimate. “Greedy bitch. My needy little girl wants me to come inside her, no? You want to get filled up with your High Priest’s come? Beg. Ask nicely, be a good girl for me and maybe I’ll let you have it.” His hand has slipped down to wrap around her throat but it isn't that that's making her breathless. Post-orgasm clarity has never done much for Zelda’s judgement (or lack thereof) and she answers him without a moment's hesitation.

“Please, your Excellency. Show everyone how pleased you are with your favourite girl, how good I've made you feel. I'll be so good, I'll never misbehave again, I promise, please!” She's babbling, barely even listening to the words that come out of her own mouth as she fucks herself on his cock, greedily chasing a second orgasm with her fingers on her clit. The muscles in his thighs are trembling, she can feel them, and all Zelda wants is for them to fall apart for each other.

And they do. She’s trembling so hard it doesn’t feel like she’s ever going to stop, her head tipped back so that the muscles in her throat strain against his fingers and her mouth open as she practically screams for him. His nails have pierced the skin at the nape of her neck and again where he’s clutching tightly onto her hip and his animalistic cries of her name will surely leave him hoarse. They rock together, seemingly incapable of doing anything but, until Faustus takes her chin in his hand again, a little more gently this time.

“Did I mention how pleased I was that you decided to join us this evening, Zelda?” He’s smiling, just a little, and she feels secure enough to rub her face against his hand as she tries to get her breath back but she knows him well enough to know that this is his way of telling her that this little encounter has come to an end. It’s fair enough, she supposes. Spending the entirety of an orgy with one partner is pointless at best; spending the entirety of an orgy with one partner who isn’t your spouse is something else entirely, even amongst witches.

“As a matter of fact, I don’t believe you did.” She speaks lightly, stretching her upper body out like a sleepy cat despite her muscles’ protesting. “Shall we say, I took it as a given?”

Faustus gives his usual short, sharp laugh as they begin to disengage from each other and Zelda watches him closely as she makes some minor magical repairs to the torn fabric of her underwear. Strange, how quickly they manage to go from unbridled basic instinct to the rigmarole of platonic politeness. It isn’t that she minds, exactly. Satan forbid, she couldn’t put up with Faustus as a partner for any significant stretch of time and, despite their intimate familiarity, Zelda wouldn’t precisely describe him as a friend. It’s merely that she’s curious to know which of the things that come out of his mouth when they’re fucking are born of something more genuine than his desire to make her come. Had he really thought that she needed to seek forgiveness for her failings or had he simply been telling her what she wanted to hear? Zelda isn’t sure, and knowing that she never will be means that the spiky prickling of shame that have been so overwhelming over the last few months are still needling at her just a little. But it’s bearable, manageable, far better than it had been an hour ago and so Zelda is more than happy to fasten up her brassiere, press a brisk kiss to the High Priest’s cheek and resign herself to not feeling his fingers on her skin for at least another year.

And as she staggers back to the Spellman house, a picture of depravity, Zelda feels lighter than she has since Edward died. Oh, she could vanish the bruises on her knees, soothe the nail-marks on her skin and fix her ruined makeup in a matter of moments, but she has absolutely no intention of doing so. Hilda will tut at the smudged lipstick where she doubtlessly is waiting in the kitchen for her big sister to come home, the cuts will sting when she lowers herself into a scalding hot bath and the sheer silk of her stockings will do absolutely nothing to hide her bruises from inquiring eyes but at the moment, that’s precisely how Zelda likes it. Anything to prolong this feeling, the uncomfortably divine sensation of being special, being chosen and, above all, being forgiven.


End file.
